Turn left here

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After a brutal two weeks of winter here in Los Angeles, where we had to wear booties, thick gloves, scarves, thermal beanies, a thick underlayer, armwarmers, short-sleeved jersey, insulated jacket, legwarmers, and plenty of embro, the 55-degree morning temperatures finally ended and summer returned. Surfer Dan and I decided to celebrate the end of the cold and bitter half-month of December/January by putting in some hard training.

Before we could train, though, we decided to hit the DK Donut Shop in Santa Monica, and figured we should grab a big cup of coffee at Philz, and then maybe pedal back home for a nap so that we could really chart out a super tough training regimen for February or March. As we pedaled down the bike path we ran into G$, who was going in the opposite direction. He was looking for partners to join him in his super tough interval workout, and so when he found out we were going to the donut shop he was all in.

“Intervals are hard, but intervals after donuts are even harder,” he said.

“Maybe so, but there’s something harder than donuts and intervals,” I replied.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Mountain biking.”

Money made a face. “I never could get the hang of that.”

“Me, either,” I agreed. “Everyone always tells me how fun it is, though.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot of fun, I guess, after it’s over.”

“Right?”

Surfer Dan was listening to us, because he’s a big MTB addict and is always trying to get me to go ride off-road with him, which I have occasionally done, invariably to my own detriment.

“The thing I could never wrap my head around was how they always say … ”

“‘…speed is your friend,'” I finished for him.

“Yeah. Speed really isn’t my friend. We haven’t spoken for years.”

“And all that crap about ‘don’t use your brakes.'”

“I know. If there’s one thing that screams ‘brakes’ it’s falling off a cliff at 40 headed straight for a log at the bottom of a minefield covered with jagged rocks.”

“Or what about that ‘don’t grip your bars so tightly’ stuff?” I laughed.

“Yeah. Like how are you supposed to not grip your bars in a death clench when physics are about to ram your face into a big stone?”

“Yep,” I agreed. “It’s a sport where you can find impending death easier than finding an accordion on an East LA radio station. But you know it wouldn’t be so bad if MTB just meant getting out on some wide and mostly flat fire road where you could pedal along and not have to drop off cliffs and avoid death every twelve seconds.”

“Uh-huh,” Money said.

“That’s what I hate about riding with Surfer. You start off on a nice fire road, no cars, birds chirping, and then he says, ‘Turn left here,’ and ‘here’ is a two-inch trail going down the face of a cliff. One minute you’re all happy and comfortable and having a good time and the next minute it’s nothing but screaming, furious terror, rage, and if-I-live-through-this-I’ll-kill-that-s.o.b.”

“I know,” said Money.

“It’s probably like how women feel when they’re having sex.”

There was a brief pause. “How do you figure?”

“Well, there they are having a good time, feeling all good and stuff and then the guy makes a hard left left turn down a narrow alley and she’s like ‘What the hell are you doing?’ and he’s like ‘Aw it won’t hurt’ and she’s like ‘Get that thing outta there’ and he’s like ‘Let’s just do it once and see how you like it’ and she’s like ‘No way’ and pretty soon everybody’s hollering and yelling and after it’s finished everybody’s all covered in sweat and kinda sore and wondering what the hell happened.”

It got really quiet then. “Uh, I think I better pass on coffee,” said Money. “I’m, uh, late for work.”

“Yeah,” said Surfer. “Me, uh, too.”

I got most of the way through my fourth donut before I realized that Surfer doesn’t even have a job.

END

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